Not the Greek island but my unit complex called Mykonos in Maroochydore, Queensland, Australia. Pictured above is the Maroochy River. A wee willem is a brand of cigars.
Over burning canefields black soot ash on an east wind past my balustrade blows, and big white pelicans the riverine splash their dive pouch longbills in the shallows. Windsurfers, sailboats, and rowers in row pass up and down in their wake across, and fishermen in the Cod Hole below sit reeling in their boats off Mykonos. Beyond my Grecian villa walls of stone a great bridge does cross the river’s divide, and the Maroochy water’s gentle groan concentrates my mind ‘twixt moon and tide. When the sun is low and the moon high fly a plague of bats just passing through - sipping a wee tincture of scotch in my dry puffing a wee willem on the avenue. Girl, like The Iliad it’s all Greek to me and soon a new life and bridge to cross, but before the two of us become three I write my postcard from Mykonos. Beyond my Grecian villa walls of stone a great bridge does cross the river’s divide, and the Maroochy water’s gentle groan concentrates my mind ‘twixt moon and tide Written: October 1999
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Not the Greek island but my unit complex called Mykonos in Maroochydore, Queensland, Australia. Pictured above is the Maroochy River. A wee willem is a brand of cigars.